Every bottle is a taste of this place.
This is my
The story of a place.
Whangaroa. Hakaroa. Akaroa.
But my tale begins millions of years before names, when two mighty volcanoes rose from the sea.
Flows of lava spilled down their flanks, forming land.
Over time my fire ceased.
Wind and water ground down my vast volcanoes. The rising ocean flooded my extinct calderas, forming the harbours of Akaroa and Lyttelton.
My island became a peninsula, connected to Te Wai Pounamu by rocks and sands washed down from the Southern Alps.
& the sea
My slopes became green and thickly forested.
My hills rang with the songs of kiwi, kākāpō, parakeets and tūī. Moa roamed. My oceans thronged with dolphins, whales, penguins and kai moana in abundance.
I sat with Maui as he fished up Te Ika a Maui. He buried a troublesome giant under my mountains. I feel him stir from time to time.
I was here when the first humans came. The Waitaha paddling their waka from Polynesia. Ngāti Māmoe and Ngāi Tahu built their pā and planted their gardens. I was here when Te Rauparaha bought fire and blood to the harbour. I watched the Ngāi Tahu chiefs Iwikau and Tikao sign Te Tiriti o Waitangi at Ōnuku Marae. I saw the British plant their flags and the disappointment on Capitaine Langlois's face as he returned too late to claim me for the French crown.
Many have told my story. But only one has distilled the essence of this place to make poems that run over your tongue. Songs that sing in your mouth.
Every bottle is a taste of this place. Kelp gathered in Wainui, lavender from Little River, rosehips from Little Akaloa, wild thyme from French Bay. Locally grown grapes, lemons, and botanicals for gins that are a true evocation of this beautiful place.